


From Afar

by MiHnn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action, Angst, Character Death, F/M, Gen, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence, gen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:41:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiHnn/pseuds/MiHnn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is his Queen, and he shall love her from afar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Afar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Darkhymns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkhymns/gifts).



> Something short that could mean so much more.

The thief comes in the middle of the night with soft steps and nimble limbs, climbing along the walls of the palace easily. He wears a dark cloth around his head and across his nose, his black eyes studying the path he must travel under pale moonlight. He is a Sellsword, stolen when he was a babe to a mighty merchant, trained under the various arts of death as taught by those across the Narrow Sea, and now he flips himself over a wall, his bare feet soft as they land on the balcony of the woman he must kill. 

He wears boiled leather, knowing that armour is loud and not fitting for such an act as he must commit, and he wears three daggers by his sides, the fourth is clutched amongst practiced fingers. 

Crouching low, he moves quickly, turning a corner and slitting the throat of the first guard he sees. He catches the man, placing him gently on the floor so that no sound breaks the silence, and then he keeps walking, his ivory encrusted dagger ready for a kill, before he sees the second guard and plunges the blade into his throat. The guard chokes and dies, but he does not make a sound. He catches the guard and places him gently on the floor as well. 

Wiping the blood on the guard’s sleeve, he then enters the bedchamber that is decorated in soft silks, walking slowly to the bed that stands in the middle. 

The Mother of Dragons sleeps soundly, defenceless and alone. The Sellsword watches her for a moment, the slow rise and fall of her chest and the soft beauty of her face as she sleeps soundly. The stories they tell of her speak only of her viciousness and hatred. They do not tell the people of her youth or innocent. For she simply a child, he realises, a child playing a game of men.

He has no time to feel regret for the choice he has made, for as he steps forward, dagger tightening in his hand, he feels the familiar burn as a blade plunges through him. He looks down to see steel protruding from his chest. Then he looks up as a soft gasp is heard. The Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Shackles, the Queen of the Andals, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea stares at him with widened eyes. Her eyes are of a colour he did not know was possible. 

_Beautiful_ , he thinks, before the blade is pulled from him and he collapses and dies.

* * *

Selmy steps back as the man falls with a dull thud, his lifeless eyes still open as crimson blood, dark from the lack of light slowly coats the floor. His Queen simply stares at him, eyes wide and breath quickening before she calls to him. 

He moves fast, taking a knee before her bed as he feels her fling herself into his arms. “You are safe now, My Queen,” he says as he feels her shiver against him. He gingerly raises an armoured hand to touch her back as he places his sword on the ground so it safely out of reach. “You are safe now, he repeats.”

The Queen takes in a shuddering breath, his armour hard against the soft silks that cover her body. “Who—?”

She does not say anything more and Selmy understands. “A Sellsword,” he answers. “No doubt a coward’s tool. No man with honour would hire a sword to do what they feel must be done.”

“Who—?” she asks breathlessly, her lips moving against his neck.

At her question, he falters. He has heard whispers in the nights, words softly spoken that could amount to treason, but he has no proof. Such an allegation could not be made without the proof needed. He will have to hold his tongue.

His grip tightens around her, hoping to give her some form of comfort from what she was forced to endure. “There have been words spoken, Your Grace, of the Sons of the Harpy hiring Sellswords for a secret cause. It might be them who sent this man tonight,” he says, speaking only of a half-truth. He wishes he could speak ill of her husband, yet he knows that such a word would be an act of treason.

She pulls away from him, such a young face, purple eyes that remind him of a laughing maiden from so long ago. That maiden had taken her own life by falling from a great tower, he only hopes to protect the life of the maiden he holds in his arms. She has his sword like she has his heart, yet she only knows about one that belong to her. 

“Sir Barristan,” she says softly, as her eyes study his. “I owe you my life.”

His grip across her waist tightens further, and he chooses to clear his throat before he speaks. “You owe me nothing, Your Grace. I should have been here. Had I not stepped away to look into other matters—“

“What other matters?” she asks sharply, her mind quick besides the attempt on her life.

Selmy falters. “It’s nothing more than a suspicion, Your Grace. Give me a fortnight and I shall have all the information you would need.”

“A suspicion,” she says softly as her fingers circle his arms. “What suspicion do you have, Sir Barristan?”

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” he says carefully, humbly. “But to speak without proof would amount to…” He stops, and she simply looks on, her eyes open and honest, enticing him to speak the truth. “Treason,” he finally says.

Her eyes darken with understanding, yet she does not demand that his head be taken from his shoulders. “I look forward to the proof you intend to have, Sir Barristan,” she says. “And do not be sullen, Sir. This is not of your doing. You are my most loyal knight. There is no other I trust more.”

She leans forward then, her eyes falling shut before she places a gentle kiss on his parted lips. He takes in a quick breath at the fleeting contact, his heart beating a medley inside his chest. 

“Your Grace,” he begins as she pulls away, only to have her lips meet his again once, twice and once more with a gentle pull. 

“I need to speak with my counsel, Sir Barristan.” She moves away from him and pulls out her legs from under the covers. “Will you come with me?”

“Always, Your Grace.” He stands up quickly, picking up his sword and sheathing it easily before holding out his hand. He helps her to her feet as he wonders, and not for the first time, why his Queen kisses him whenever she wishes to show her appreciation. 

He walks behind her, intent to find a guard to bury the body that was in her bedchamber, while he watches her form as a man would lust after a woman he knows he can never have. 

He is her sword and he will defend her until the last of his breath leaves him. But that does not mean he cannot love her from afar.


End file.
